Before and After
by tobia
Summary: After leaving Mayfield, a sometimes psychotic House moves in with Wilson. Strong H/W friendship but no slash. Chapter 6 added and reuploaded due to internet issues last night . FINISHED.
1. Chapter 1

**Before and After**

**Disclaimer: I don't own House. Also, thanks to the TWOPer who mentioned the idea of House teaching diagnostics!**

….

House had spent the day building a house of popsicle sticks. Actually, "house" would be inaccurate, Wilson realizes after looking at it for a minute. It's more of a mansions—six stories tall, with a swimming pool and what Wilson can only guess to be popsicle stick stables, badminton nets, and tennis courts in the back. It's actual kind of cool, Wilson thinks, until he notices that all the popsicles sticks have come from the industrial size bag of popsicles that he had been planning to take to the Pediatric Oncology ward tomorrow.

"Take a look at Kobe's house," House says, looking up from his project. "The scale's a bit smaller, and termite insurance is a bitch, but has all the right stuff."

"Really, House? You had to use the chemo kids' popsicles? You were that bored?"

"Oh, come on. Like high fructose corn syrup is really so great for their long-term survival."

"And it's good for you? You ate a whole gallon of ice cream Tuesday. And left the melting container on the couch for me to pick up, I might add."

"What? You expect a cripple to clean up after himself? God, you're the slave driver. And psychosis is different from cancer—sugar is indicated."

"By whom? _The Journal of I Make This Shit Up?"_

"I'm pretty sure I saw that in JAMA," House deadpans.

Wilson glares at him.

"Or an ad for Ben and Jerry's. High quality research either way," House says, grinning just slightly.

Wilson knows he shouldn't have sugar in the apartment, that even the low dose antipsychotic House is taking raises his susceptibility to rapid weight gain, metabolic disorders, insulin resistance, and diabetes. He knows that House knows that, too, that House knew that long before Mayfield, and that House knows it now and just doesn't care. Just like how he knew Vicodin can cause liver damage and didn't care. For House, comfort wins out over health. For Wilson, well, he just figures House has lost enough recently.

"Wait, since when did Kobe have a tennis court?"

"Isn't a basketball court a bit cliché? I mean, where's the mystery in that? And, damn, that would be a _boring _episode of _Cribs."_

House migrates over towards the TV and turns it on, flipping to an old Baywatch rerun on a channel that only comes as part of the premium "bachelor party" cable package, a cable package Wilson had never ordered and didn't even know about until he received his highly inflated cable bill. When he called the cable company to protest the bill, he was told that a "G.H. McHotness" had ordered it with his credit card.

Wilson picks up House's house and starts making dinner, lasagna from a box. Wilson has come to like the days when he comes home to House making popsicle stick mansions, playing his PSP, and watching tacky TV shows on horrifically expensive channels. Hell, he even enjoys the mornings where he wakes up to find his toilet covered in saran wrap or eyebrows drawn on his face. Not because it doesn't bug the shit out of him—oh, it does—but because House was like that _before._

…

During the past nine months, Wilson has learned to divide the world into _before _and _after_. _Before_, Wilson lived alone. _Before,_ House was a doctor. _Before, _House was crazy—but sane. _Before_, House and Wilson went out for drinks. _Before, _House was, in small moments, in tiny glimpses of time, happy, _Before_, House could do what he loved. _Before_, even though Cuddy sometime hated to admit it, House was needed. _Before,_ House was right. _Before, _Wilson, even though he always hated to admit it, leaned on House. _Before,_ everything seemed like it might be okay.

_After_ is what Wilson hates. _After_, Wilson makes lasagna for two. _After_, Wilson knows by heart the dosage, chemical formula, effectiveness, and potential side effects of every anti-psychotic in the book. _After_, Wilson knows the drive to Mayfield by heart. _After, _Wilson has found his best friend wandering the streets, perfectly sober but not at all lucid. _After_, Wilson no longer has alcohol in his apartment because he knows that under no circumstances can someone on Zyprexa drink. _After_, Wilson goes to the hospital, and House does not come with him. _After, _Wilson eats lunch alone, with no one to steal his food. _After_, House can no longer practice. _After, _Wilson has to check to make sure House has taken his daily pills. _After_, House leans on Wilson. _After, _nothing is okay.

House had spent six months in Mayfield. First had been the Vicodin detox which didn't help the hallucinations but just made House as sick as any chemo patient Wilson has ever seen. Next had been the medical rule-outs, the blood tests, MRIs, fMRIs, EEGs, and CAT scans, all of which had shown no tumor, no complex partial seizures, no MS, no brain damage. Then had come the antipsychotics—Geodon, Abilify, and Ripserdal, just to name a few. And with them had come the weight gain, the high blood pressure, the strange jerking of House's face, the exhaustion, and, what House seemed to despise most of all, the mental dullness, a fogginess that, Wilson was told, feels like having a cloud wrapped around your mind. None of them really helped, though Zyprexa, which dulls House's psychosis somewhat, had the least side effects, so that was the drug they stuck him on in the end. It was still largely ineffective, but at least they were doing _something_, they said. It reminded Wilson of palliative care in terminal cancer patients—nothing can be done and yet you still do something.

Wilson had been appointed, via a living will he didn't know House had, House's medical proxy. He did little in the way of actual medical proxying, taking orders from House, who came up with one brilliant, inconceivable diagnosis after another—diagnoses that were all tested and all wrong. When it came down to it, House was schizophrenic, a rare diagnosis in its own right, considering the late onset. _Just like my brother_, Wilson had thought, as a chill ran up and down his spine. And from that moment on, Wilson was dead set on saving House.

Wilson made the drive to Mayfield biweekly, each time to see a different House. Sometimes, during the early days, he saw a House who was puking his guts out and screaming in pain. Sometimes, he saw a House with limbs flailing involuntary, a side effect of the countless antipsychotics—ironically, as it turned out, House didn't tolerate drugs too well. Sometimes, he saw a House lost in his own world, muttering at someone—_Amber?_ he always wondered—who Wilson could not see. And sometimes, on the good days, Wilson saw his friend, the one who made comments about the nurses' breasts, who armchair diagnosed the other patients, who made fun of Freud, who stole Wilson's French fries as they talked over lunch. Those days were the only things that made Wilson come back.

It was on one of those days when, out of nowhere, House's face turned gravely serious, and he asked Wilson if he could leave Mayfield. The meds weren't improving, the psychotherapy was "bullshit," the group therapy was "sharing time bullshit," the nurses wore uniforms with "too high of necklines," his roommate was "not only a nutcase but a naturopath and an asshole," his main psychologist " preached all of this new age Buddhist-y shit," the food "sucked worse than [Wilson]'s cooking," the walls were the wrong color, he missed his PSP, they scheduled art therapy during his soaps... Wilson said yes for the one reason House didn't mention, the one reason they both knew he never would. House would never be better, so why stay here?

Wilson had talked to House's chief psychiatrist, explaining that he was a doctor, that he could monitor House's treatment compliance and be on guard for any worsening symptoms or side effects, that House would live with him, and that most of all he _knew_, in a way that no one else does, Gregory House. Within a week, the doctor was calling Wilson to discuss an outpatient treatment plan which included weekly therapy—which Wilson knew House would never go to and which he never has—and monthly med checks, which House complies to, Wilson suspects, because even someone as risk-prone as House doesn't _really_ want to die.

…

Over the past three months, Wilson has seen the ins and outs of psychosis in a way that he missed seeing with his brother. He has seen the good days, when House seems almost normal, his old sarcastic, sexist, misanthropic, brilliant self. He has also seen the bad days, the _after_ days, when he comes home to a House in the middle of a conversation with his dead girlfriend. He has found House wandering the streets at three in the morning, caught up in a full-blown episodic hallucination—one of major reason House now lives with Wilson and not alone—and lead him home, given him a PRN sedative that he now keeps on hand, and stayed up the rest of night with him. He has seen House caught in a "mental fog," his normally brilliant mind dulled in a way that Wilson can see is almost physically painful for his friend.

He now reads the psychiatry journals almost as much as the oncology ones. He has dealt with his friend screaming at him that he's "not a fucking baby, and if you want to get a helping fix, just get another fucking wife." He never makes House say he sorry, because he knows at won't—and never did—mean anything. There are days when he hates this, but he will do it, he knows, until House gets better or until one of them dies. Not only because House will _not_ be another Danny but because Wilson knows there will never be another House.

…

A week ago, a job "mysteriously" opened up at PPTH, teaching two diagnostics classes, each for two hours a day, two days a week. The job, in what Wilson is almost sure is a violation of fair hiring rules, was announced only to Wilson who knows, of course, that was manufactured specifically for House. Because House won't do the requisite preps and probably won't grade any tests, the job will only require eight hours a week of sanity. It's highly flexible and starts in two weeks, Cuddy had said, leaving unsaid what they both were thinking: _Please make House take it._

House, of course, had resisted at first. "It's a pity job," he said. "Teaching those med students will make me blow my brains out more than Mayfield did. They're _fucking useless."_

"It's a job," Wilson had pointed out, "in diagnostics. You'd be good at it."

"I was a good _doctor_. Teaching is a job for the useless and senile."

"It's amazing you got through med school with that attitude."

"Yes, because those med students are fucking imbeciles."

"So, make them better. Build a better med student."

"If I wanted to bash my head against the wall, I could find a much less painful way to do it."

"House, take it. You need a job."

"Why? Because being a psychotic cripple isn't enough?"

"Because I know you won't file for disability. Because someone has to pay for the BoobyHot channels you ordered…"

"Hey, I've seen you watching those at night!"

"Because you need to use your mind. You're bored, and it's killing you. Yes, you can't be a doctor anymore, but _this is as close as you're going to get."_

House shuts up. The next day, Wilson saw a sticky note on the counter, "Tell Cuddy I said yes."

…

As Wilson scoops the lasagna out of the tray, House turns off the TV and stumbles over to the table.

"So," he says as he sits down, "how was the Cuddy boobage today? So low cut that you could see the good stuff?"

Wilson smiles, thinking that maybe these good days, these _before _days, make it all worth it, and knowing they probably don't. He wishes sometimes that he could keep them in a bottle, saving them forever. That way, when the _after_ days come, he wouldn't have to rely just on memory to remind him that he hasn't yet lost his best friend.


	2. Chapter 2

**Best Place**

**Author's note: Thanks for the reviews! Just in case there's any confusion, positive schizophrenia symptoms are hallucinations and delusions. Negative symptoms are things like disorganized speech, loss of speech (alogia) and loss of motivation (avolation). Oh, and best place remembering is something I more or less made up, though many similar techniques are employed in health psychology.**

…

The worst thing about this consult is not that it's going to cost Wilson fifty bucks. No, the worst thing is that Wilson knows he isn't going to be told what he wants to hear.

He sits down in the chair across from the psychiatrist and is eerily reminded of all the failed marriage counseling sessions he has gone to with wife after wife after wife, all of them trying to "save" something that, in reality, was obviously not meant to be.

"Can you up his dosage?" Wilson asks bluntly, finally using his medical proxy power for something other than springing House from Mayfield.

"Why? Is he showing more breaks? An increase in negative or positive symptoms? I didn't make note of any of that when I saw him…"

_Because these med checks are fifteen fucking minutes long!_ Wilson thinks, but restrains himself, feeling his grip model more tightly around the armrest of the chair.

"No, but he's starting a new job soon—lecturing two days a week—and I'm worried the stress might…"

"We can't increase dosages for "what ifs," Dr Wilson. If Dr. House's symptoms increase, then maybe we'll consider making a change to the regimen, but for now…"

"But House is still psychotic! He still hallucinates! Isn't that enough indication to up the fucking dosage?" Wilson yells, shocked by his own anger.

"Dr. Wilson," the psychiatrist says blandly, "during Dr. House's time as an in-patient, his treatment team tried higher dosages of several antipsychotics. All produced significant side effects. Potentially life-threatening side effects. Dr. House's current level of functioning, while not optimal, is acceptable. There is no cure for schizophrenia, Dr. Wilson. Most of my patients go through cycles of relapse and remission. Some remain continuously floridly psychotic. Others commit suicide. Even the relatively small number who achieve full remission with medication occasionally have small psychotic breaks. In terms of schizophrenia, Dr. House's symptoms are relatively mild—he has very few negative symptoms and those that he does display occur only during acute breaks. He has insight into his non-episodic hallucinations, which is very good and very rare. He does not display constant psychosis. Given continued treatment compliance and continued relative effectiveness of the Zyprexa, his prognosis is relatively positive."

Wilson recognizes those words. He's said their oncological variants enough—it may be bad but it could be worse, the chemo won't cure the cancer but it may shrink the tumor, it's Stage III but we were lucky to catch it before there were distant metastases, and so on and so forth. They are the words of half-hope, things doctors say when they know any hope that could give would be utterly, transparently false. Wilson swears he can feel his heart plummet. He is thankful House isn't dying, but is insanity that much better for him? Or is this just double death? For House? Or for him?

"Thank you," he says, his voice, vacuous and without heart.

The psychiatrist stands up and shakes his hand.

"We should get the results from today's blood tests back from the lab in a few days. I'll have the nurse call you with the results."

"Thank you," Wilson says again, in that same breathless, soulless tone.

…

House is in the waiting room, playing his PSP. Wilson can see House's arm straining relentlessly against the gaze bandage wrapped tightly around it. House looks up at him smiling.

"You guys hook up or something? Or is Freud-the-Obvious not needy enough for you?"

Wilson shrugs off the joke and tells House what he knows House is really asking, what House will move heaven and earth to find out if Wilson does not tell him.

"I asked him to increase your dosage. He refused."

Wilson can see House considering that for a moment, his blue eyes deeply thoughtful.

"All these years and now you're trying to give me more drugs? It would have been a _whole lot_ cooler if you decided to do that with Vicodin."

"For you, maybe." Wilson replies, thinking _It wouldn't be very hard to be more fun than this._

…

"You're nervous," Wilson comments as House walks out of bathroom.

"About what? The oh-so-brilliant intellect of med students?"

"About going back to the hospital. About seeing your team again. About screwing up. About Cuddy."

"You know, Wilson, I'm pretty sure I fulfilled my lifetime quota of crappy psychoanalysis at the nuthouse. Though I have to admit, none of them had your _stunning_ cheekbones."

Wilson picks his jacket up off the couch. "Let's go, House."

House follows him out, all the while saying, "You're really wearing that tie? It looks like something Cuddy's little muppet threw up on…"

…

House teaches from ten until noon and then again from two until four, giving him, Wilson thinks, just enough time to get into trouble. So when House doesn't show up at Wilson's office at one as they—or rather, _Wilson_—had planned, he isn't horribly surprised.

"We need to get House," Wilson says bluntly as he walks in Cuddy's office and closes the door.

"Is he.. is he…" Cuddy asks, unable to say the words that they both are thinking.

"He's House any which way. But he was stable when we left this morning. I don't think he's having a break."

Wilson can see Cuddy shoulders relax as she sighs in relief. "Let's go," she says.

When they arrive at the diagnostics department, they see House scribbling furiously on the white board.

Cuddy opens the door to be greeted by House yelling at Taub. "That would be an excellent idea—if it matched any of the symptoms, which it _doesn't_ and if a five year-old couldn't rule it out in five minutes, which one could, especially if those morons at St. Sebastian's _already did_. God, your brains really do atrophy quickly."

"House, I need to see you. Please come with me," Cuddy says, and to Wilson's surprise, House drops the marker and leaves. Wilson can see the fellows giggling and whispering to each other as he leaves. He can't help but think that House's treatment of them might not be too far off the mark.

"House," Cuddy says after they enter her office, "you can't practice medicine without a license. You know that…"

Wilson notes that she does not say, _And you can't get a license if you're actively psychotic._

House doesn't respond; he just stares at Cuddy with wonder and shock in his eyes.

"Are you… are you… real?" he asks quietly in a voice Wilson has heard only a few times in his life.

Cuddy stares at House and at Wilson, shocked, afraid. This is the first time she's seen House since he entered Mayfield, Wilson remembers. Houser had made it very clear that James Wilson was the only person who could visit him, and while Mayfield may not let their patients have CD players, PSPs, posters of Pamela Anderson, or Vicodin, they do respect wishes about who may visit. Unfortunately, while Wilson remembered that Cuddy has not seen House for nine months, he had forgotten that the opposite may not be true.

House advances slowly towards Cuddy and places his hand gently on her cheek, watching her, expecting _something_ but what Wilson does not know.

Cuddy doesn't flinch, but Wilson can tell she is afraid. She is unsure, he knows, if House will hurt her or try to kiss her or just stand there forever, trying to ascertain, in a way even he cannot, if the feeling under his fingers is of any substance at all.

Wilson moves alongside House. "She's real," he says. "This is real."

His friend looks at him with doubt in his eyes. The look is foreign, misplaced, and every time Wilson sees it, he wonders if someone who you do not love can break your heart. House drops his hand from Cuddy cheek.

"House," Cuddy says, her voice shaking ever so lightly. "You can teach here. You can supervise the TAs I will be assigning to you. You can eat lunch in the cafeteria. You can even play your PSP in the chapel and sleep in the empty exam rooms if you want. But you are no longer a licensed physician. You cannot talk to patients in a medical capacity. _You cannot diagnose_. You cannot practice medicine. Do you understand?"

House looks up at her. "Yes," he says, his voice still eerily quiet.

Wilson notices the clock on the wall; it's almost 1:30

"You need to get to your next class, House," he says and gently guides his friend out of the door.

Wilson walks with House to the lecture hall.

"My team," House asks, regaining a bit of his composure, "do they know?"

"No," he answers. "They think Cuddy put you on indefinite paid administrative leave for gross violations of the employee conduct code. News of your balcony proclamation spread quite quickly."

Wilson swears he can see just the tiniest bit of relief fly across House's face.

When they reach House's lecture hall, Wilson stops. "I'll be here at four," he says. "Have fun. Be nice. Or at least tolerable," he adds.

"When am I not nice?" House asks mischievously, the slightest of grins spreading across his face.

…

House doesn't come out of the lecture hall until nearly 4:30.

"Damn ass-kissing med students," House proclaims as he stomps out.

"Someone talk to you after class?" Wilson asks.

"This one held me up for nearly half an hour, prattling on about how "brilliant" and "inspiring" I am and how she's just sure the class will be "so enlightening."

"Grade grubber?"

"Yeah, and she's not even hot enough to get a blow job from. At least Chase had the man-pretty thing going for him."

Wilson can't help but smile. "Since we didn't have lunch, we don't we grab an early dinner?"

"You paying?"

"Would it even matter if I said no?"

"No."

"Then yes."

"Okay…but Wilson, no places with stages or singing, okay?"

"Okay, House." This is one of those things Wilson just doesn't ask about.

…

They are one of two filled tables at the Princeton-Plainsboro IHOP, an unsurprisingly unpopular destination at five in the evening.

"So what case did you use for the second year class?" Wilson asks, as House shovels chocolate chip pancakes ("Where's the Kalhua version?" he had asked their waitress, who couldn't be older than fifteen.) into his mouth.

"Alien boy," House answers. "The joys of rectal bleeding and in vitro fertilization."

"Did they get it?"

"Not even close."

"How about the fourth year class?"

"Yet more rectal bleeding."

"Esther?"

"No, think more sci-fi."

"You used the _same_ case for both classes? Won't the fourth years just cheat?"

"If they do, I'll know which ones are boning the second years… and they must be pretty desperate, because that class does not have one hot piece of ass in it."

"You know, I think the admission committee looks at more then hotness when selecting a medical school class."

"Hopefully, if this was the best they could do. And much to my detriment, I might add. I don't have your pool of naughty but insecure nurses to pick from," House says, as he reaches over to fork a piece of sausage off Wilson's plate.

Wilson laughs, and for a moment, he forgets. He forgets House shouldn't be having sugar. He forgets about Mayfield, about the Zyprexa bottle in the medicine cabinet. He forgets that now House is a doctor in title only, that they live together, that the past nine months ever happened.

And then, of course, he remembers.

…

In oncology, they sometimes teach the patients who are going through particularly rough stages a coping technique called "best place remembering." It involves having patients focus in on their best single memory and envelop themselves in it, using all their mental power to imagine that they are somewhere, _anywhere_ else.

Wilson has, from time to time, considered what his best place memory would be—maybe something with Amber or from when he was kid or from his days at McGill. He realizes now that this moment, with his second-rate food being stolen from his plate by a misogynistic, misanthropic free-loader might rank pretty highly on the list….

For all the years they've known each other, James Wilson's best memory of Gregory House might just be the time when, for the smallest sliver of time, he managed to forget.


	3. Chapter 3

**Broken**

**Author's Note: Sorry for the delayed update, and thank you all for the reviews and favs—they keep me writing! Medical note: IM=intramuscular (i.e., via injection). Oh, and lethargy/drowsiness is a side effect of Haldol, though not as severe as portrayed here (I'm taking creative license here). For the record, I don't own House, Jimmy Dean, or Mystery Diagnosis**

….

It takes four weeks for the bottom to fall out. Wilson knows he should be used to this—with House, there's always a shoe waiting to drop, a base waiting to crumble. Even _before_, House was always inches away from some crisis—an overdose, an accident, a lawsuit, a break-up. But Wilson was used to those; they were crises he could handle. These are not, even after nine months, and he suspects that they never will be. They are also the times when Wilson finds himself most wishing for the old crises, the abnormal normal that once was Gregory House.

…

He can tell something is wrong the moment he sees House standing in front of his office. He looks confused, distant, as though he is watching not quite in front of him, something further away. When he speaks, his voice is rushed and his words don't quite fit. Wilson knew this was coming, and yet as he walks House swiftly into his office, he can't help but feel his heart plummet. Losing your best friend, it turns out, doesn't get any easier with practice.

As House wanders around Wilson's office, examining things that only he can see, Wilson picks up the phone and calls Cuddy. He wants to just leave and take House home with him, where no one can see him like this and where he knows—sort of—what to do, but he knows that's too risky to try alone.

"Cuddy, House is breaking… I need to get him to my apartment, and I need you to help me get him out so that no one sees him."

"Is he… violent?" Cuddy asks and Wilson can feel the tension in her voice.

"No," he says, "but House wouldn't want anyone to know. About anything else, sure, but not about this."

Cuddy is silent.

"Come to my office," he says, "please."

"I'll be there," she says, and Wilson can hear in Cuddy's voice something he's so rarely heard in it: pure, simple fear.

…

Cuddy looks at House, visibly shaken. Wilson knows the feeling. Even though they have both seen House at his worst—drunk, high, detoxing, bleeding, angry, in pain—there is something uniquely frightening about seeing him in psychotic state. A House in any other state is still House—sarcastic, bitter, brilliant.

There had been times when House had confused him or shocked him or pissed him off, sure, but there was never a time where Wilson had looked at the man and not seen, for better or for worse, the essence of who he was. Then last summer had come, and Wilson had realized that even House is not stronger than psychosis. He had looked at his best friend and seen in him a stranger, someone who he did not know. Someone who was not—could never be—Gregory House. And yet, somehow, was.

It scared the hell out of him. It still does.

House turns to stare at Cuddy. He takes a couple of steps toward her, hand out stretched, and then turns away, unsure.

"I need to get him out of here… we need a back entrance, something discreet."

"There's an exit by the OB ward, not far from here. It won't take us by the clinic or House's office," she says, regaining a bit of her composure.

Wilson approaches House slowly and loops House's arm under his. "We're going home," he says, unsure whether or not his voice makes it through the fog and into House's world.

…

Almost like clock work, Wilson can see the Haldol take effect. House falls back on the couch, as though he has finally decided to give up. The drug, while great at quickly halting psychosis, wreaks near hell on House's body, producing intense lethargy punctuated by periods of rapid, uncontrollable movement.

Wilson knows that he should take House to an ER when these things happen, that the Haldol should be given by someone who has more training than six weeks of a long-forgotten medical school rotation in psych, that what he is doing, while barely ethical, is hardly standard practice. He also knows, however, that House, sane or otherwise, does not fit well into practice guidelines... but, in the end, he saved lives. House did what is right without always doing what is ethical, and on these nights when he stands in unbreaking vigil over his wandering friend, Wilson tries to delude himself into believing that he is, too, is right.

There is a sharp knock on the door, and Wilson walks over to answer it.

"Wilson, it's me," he can hear Cuddy say through the door.

He opens the door. "What do you need?"

"I'm staying," she says.

"You… really don't have to. House is fine."

"Yes, and he was _just fine_ when you left. I'm staying." She walks past him.

"I can _do this_."

"And you really want to do this alone?"

"House… wouldn't want you involved. He _cares_ about you."

"And he cares about you." The words strike Wilson in way he wouldn't have expected. "House" and "care" usually don't go in a sentence without the word "not." Wilson has always cared about House, but he had rarely thought about it in reverse.

"He wanted me here before," Cuddy says softly. "I wasn't."

"He insulted your _child_. You had a right to walk away."

"And you don't?"

"I tried… after Amber… it didn't work."

"Isn't that always the case?" Cuddy says.

"Is he okay?" she asks, moving slowly towards the couch.

"I gave him Haldol IM ten minutes ago. He'll be out of it until tomorrow morning at least."

"How… how much does this happen?"

Wilson rests head in his hands. "I don't know… it's random… less since he's been on Zyprexa."

"What does he…?"

"I don't know," Wilson says. "I've never asked."

"You know he wouldn't give you the same break, right?"

"I know," Wilson says, the smallest of rueful smiles playing across his face.

"I missed him," she says. "My job was a hell of a lot easier, though."

"Yeah, me, too"

"I thought you saw him at Mayfield."

"I did."

She turns to him. "Why are you doing this, Wilson?"

He will not tell her about Daniel.

"I'm his friend," he says simply, knowing that, whether he likes it or not, it is the indelible truth.

…

At 2 AM, House's legs and arms start to jerk and tremor. Wilson gets up out of his chair and, after the movement stops, holds House's arms gently but firmly. House's breathing is rushed but steady. Wilson lets him go.

"Is he okay?" Cuddy asks.

"Akathisia. A side effect from the Haldol."

"How long does it last?"

"Acutely, he's usually better by morning, but the effects tend to linger for another day or so."

"Cuddy?" House says faintly.

"She's here," Wilson says, and House peers at her, untrusting.

House falls back against the couch, overtaken by lethargy again.

"You… can leave," Wilson says. "Rachel…"

"Is with her sitter," Cuddy says. "I called before I came. Apparently, the prom is coming up soon, so an extra $200 was especially intriguing."

"What you did wasn't wrong; your daughter _is_ more important than House."

"House expected me to be there."

"House isn't yours to protect anymore, Cuddy."

"I know."

The silence hangs between them, holding all the words left unsaid.

"Do you care about him?" Wilson asks

"I'm not discussing that right now," she says, staring at the lightly sleeping form of Gregory House.

"It matters."

"Not now, it doesn't."

"So it did before?"

"It would have never worked out. I knew that from day one."

"But you did it anyway."

"What does it matter? It was a med school fling!"

"And what happened after Joy…?"

"Was emotion. Grief. I'm looking after a sick employee. That's all."

"And _none _of it matters?"

"Not now. No. Not since what happened."

"Why?"

Cuddy laughs derisively, and House's eye open briefly to stare it her. He makes the motion to get up, but just as he starts to stand, his legs start to jerk beneath has already unstable body, and he falls back again, exhausted.

"Can't you see this?"

Wilson thinks back to all of the _before_ days. The antics. The insults. The cable channels. The stolen food. The piano playing. The brilliance. House incarnate. House alive.

"He's still there."

"Really, Wilson?"

"If he wasn't, what would I be staying for?" Wilson asks, and he realizes in that moment, that he was wrong. The friendship isn't forever. It is tied, irrevocably, to House. It depends entirely on the essence of _before_.

…

The next morning, Cuddy and Wilson are sitting the table eating breakfast when House gets up and stumbles toward them. He stares at Cuddy.

"She's real," Wilson says.

House stares for a moment longer and then sits down.

"Well, if she's not, this is one shitty hallucination. She's clothed _and_ not lusting for me."

"Good to see you've retained your professionalism," Wilson says dryly, as he hands a single white Zyprexa tablet to House."

Cuddy gets up to leave. "8 AM meeting," she says, and Wilson can't tell if she's tell the truth or not. "Thanks for breakfast."

"Thanks for staying," he replies, and then she is gone.

"So, she blow you or something?" House ask as he shovels Jimmy Dean sasauge into his mouth.

"No, House. She helped me get you home."

House goes pale. "You fucking bastard!"

"She already knew about Mayfield and I needed to get you out… quickly. Since when do you care about what people think about you, anyway?"

"Go to hell." House says and as he stumbles toward the couch.

Wilson pretends to be unphased. "Take your Zyprexa," he calls.

"Or what? You'll ground me?" House taunts.

"Because otherwise you'll just be another non-compliant, stupid patient, and there will be no brilliant you to save you," Wilson replies, throwing House's old rhetoric back in his face.

House accepts the pill from Wilson and swallows it. Wilson checks under his tongue and in his cheeks. It looks good.

"I'll be back at six," Wilson says as he opens the door. "Call if you need anything."

"Yes, _mommy_."

….

When he arrives home, Wilson finds House asleep in front of a Mystery Diagnosis marathon. He smiles as he imagines his friend solving the cases in five minutes and then spending the other 55 pointing out how the show's doctors "are actually stupider than the fellows. _Incredible_." This Wilson knows from experience.

Very gently, very carefully, Wilson nudges House.

"Philly cheesesteaks for dinner," Wilson says, holding the greasy bag in one hand. "Possibly the most unhealthy food man could make."

"You really need to try fried Twinkies," Houses mumbles, sitting up. Wilson can see his leg twitch just a little bit.

" I'd prefer to live to 50."

"Wimp."

House makes his way over to the kitchen.

"Finally, you do something _good_."

"And treating cancer is…?"

"I meant, for _me_," House says through bites of his sandwich.

"You're welcome, House."

"Thank you."


	4. Chapter 4

**Gifting**

**Author's note: Sorry for long wait and thank you for all the reviews. Let me know what you think about this chapter, good or bad! This didn't post the first time for some reason, so I'm trying again!**

…**..**

"Why did you give your class a test, again?" Wilson asks, staring at the huge stack of papers on the kitchen table.

"Didn't feel like lecturing. And I like to make them suffer…" House says, lying on couch.

"Couldn't your TAs grade them?"

"Apparently, it's in their contract that they don't grade exams… or at least that's what Cuddy's lips say."

"And you're actually obeying a contract? A _med student's _contract?"

"Well, I do have an excellent oncologist to grade them… Come on, you must miss doing my paperwork."

"_I'm_ grading them? Have you done anything at all for this job?"

"I lecture."

"And I'm sure it took a job description two paragraphs long to sum up _that_."

"I'm ordering pizza," House announces, rolling over and grabbing the phone. "Want anything?"

"For you not to use my credit card this time."

"Not happening."

….

House eats now, Wilson notices. Of course, it's not like he was anorexic before, but he ate largely with disinterest, lacking any real passion for what was on his plate. Food didn't matter. Vicodin did; alcohol did; cases did, but not food. Food matters now, and now House eats with abandon. Part of this, Wilson knows, is one of the many side effects of the anti-psychotics, but he thinks another part of it is desperation—over the past ten months, House has lost so much: alcohol, Vicodin, his license, Cuddy, his own mind. Pretty much the only things he has left are food and Wilson.

Wilson is already dreading the day when House's labs come back, and they're not normal, when the increased food intake puts more than just a few vanity pounds on his friend. When that happens, he knows, he will start having to ration House's food: saying no to pizza, skipping the ice cream aisle, abandoning the philly cheesesteak place on Fifth and Hope. That is not something Wilson has much practice doing—with oncology patients, it's the opposite: Feed them. Make them eat. Bring on the calories. Wilson wonders, too, if he will able to stand taking away another thing from House, if psychosis can kill someone from mere process of elimination.

So, for now, Wilson secretly enjoys watching his friend scarf down supreme double cheese pizza with gusto. Not that he would ever say that, of course.

"Will you please try _not _to drip pizza grease on _your_ student's test?" Wilson asks, looking up from his—or rather _House's—_grading_._

"I'll just tell them it's a mark of extra credit," House answers, shoving half a slice of pizza into his mouth.

"Judging from how these tests are going, they'll need it. Is 'mastalagidosis' even a word?"

"Busy," House answers, having decided to pull out his PSP.

Wilson gets up to put the first stack of graded tests back in House's pack. As he puts them in, he notices stack after stack of papers filled with House's handwriting. Before his friend can react, Wilson pulls them out. They are diagnostic notes—page after page of symptoms, differentials, red-herrings, and rule-outs. They're what a normal professor might use for pre-class prep or lecture notes. They're also something House would never do.

Unless….

"The mental fogging from the Zyprexa? Is it getting bad?"

"Stay the fuck out of my stuff! And my business for that matter!" House says, his voice tense with anger.

"House, you can—you _should—_tell me things…"

"Get back to your grading. You have another twenty papers for your heart to bleed all over. Hell, you won't even need a pen."

Wilson walks over, grabs House's PSP, and stares him straight in the eye.

"What the fuck are you doing?" House yells. "I was about to beat Dracore V!"

"House, _is it getting bad?"_

"What does it matter?" House asks and limps to Wilson's bedroom, grabbing his PSP as he leaves.

When Wilson is finished grading, his walks into his bedroom to find House sleeping on his bed. Normally, Wilson would never let House sleep in his—_Amber's_—bed, but tonight, he doesn't have the heart to wake him. Unwilling to move all of House's stuff from the couch, he grabs a blanket and pillow and falls asleep on the floor beside the bed.

…

Wilson gets a call at three in the morning—two of his patients are crashing, and he needs to come in now.

He gets dressed in a hurry and wakes House up, who berates him only half-heartedly.

"I'll leave your Zyprexa on the table. If anything happens, call…"

"I'll be fine, _mommy,_" House says sarcastically and rolls over.

…

The next day is a whirlwind. Wilson showers in the doctors' lounge and hardly has time to eat. His patients seem to have all hit something—a zenith, a turning point, the bottom—at the same time, and he doesn't even have time to go back to the apartment. When the morning sun rises again, a sleep-deprived, blurry-eyed Wilson sneaks in a five minute call to House.

"If you need a ride, I can…"

"You know my medical license and my motorcycle license are two different things, right? I still have the bike."

"I'll meet you before your class... and House…"

"'_Take your Zyprexa'_. I _know_! The well still isn't very deep, is it?" With that, he hangs up.

…

House does make it to PPTH. He does give two lectures, hand back tests, and meet with his TAs. He functions, and yet Wilson in his numb, sleepless state, still worries. Something sees slightly off about his friend, but it is something—a vague distance, almost distractedness, if you will—that Wilson can't quite place. And, to be honest, right now, the last thing he wants to deal with is the thing he fears might be happening—the thing he dreads and waits for and doesn't want.

And so they go home and watch American Idol with the sound off ("That chick may sound like a horse's ass, but the cleavage is _spectacular_! And her ass is, too, come to think of it."). Wilson orders dinner, Chinese this time ("And it's not even Christmas!"). They eat in silence. House watches _Baywatch_.

And then, just as Pamela Anderson is making another scantily clad run across the beach, Wilson sees House breaking.

Exhausted, he injects the Haldol and lies next to House on the floor, placing one hand diligently across his friend's chest so that he will know if House starts to move or get up. And so they exist, the epitome of pitiful, broken in everyway.

The sleep-deprivation training from residency has long since worn off and so Wilson feels near dead—so exhausted, in fact, that he does not notice until House's involuntary jerking startles him awake that his hand had been placed just underneath House's heart.

….

In the morning, Wilson knows something is wrong. House is distracted, noticeably so, eager to get away, to talk to Amber, to shut her up. House doesn't admit this, but by now, Wilson can guess enough both to tell what's happening and to know that having even non-episodic hallucinations this soon after the Haldol can't be good. Thus, he calls in and sits with his friend until noon, when he sees House start to break again, something that hasn't happened with such frequency or such entirety since Mayfield.

Wilson was given instructions for this, instructions, he will, unlike House, follow.

So, he picks up the phone and makes three calls—one to House's psychiatrist who is, as always—_clearly picked psych for the hours_, House had once commented—absent, one to the psychiatric ward, and one to Cuddy.

"House needs to be admitted," he says. "PPTH is the only full psych unit close by."

"What should…?"

"Please," Wilson says, his spinning mind suddenly locked on one thing that really should no longer matter, "fill out the paperwork with another name."

He can, at least, give House that.


	5. Chapter 5

**Committed**

**Author note: Sorry for the delay! Thank you for all the reviews, and the Season 6 promo looks sweet, no? One medical note: "Cards" is medical lingo for "cardiology." Enjoy, hopefully!**

"Has he been taking his Zyprexa recently?" a young doctor, one who Wilson—_thank_ _God_—does not know, asks.

"Yes," Wilson answers instinctively.

"Are you absolutely certain?" the doctor asks, and Wilson notices the rings of exhaustion around the eyes. He's a fresh attending, maybe even a fellow.

Wilson is about to say yes again when he realizes that he _isn't _certain. He has not been home in the mornings for the past two days, and while House obviously knows he needs to take the drug, he had never actually said that he _did_, in so many words.

"No… I don't know…"

"You know you should always check these things, right?"

"_Yes_." Wilson snaps, exhausted. "I do _every day_. I've been at the hospital, on call, for the past two days."

"On call?" he asks, suddenly more interested. He scrutinizes the chart more carefully, especially the part where it lists "Tim Robinson's" medical proxy.

"Wilson… Wilson… Cards? No, that can't be right… Oncology?"

Wilson thinks he may just deck the guy, but fortunately, Cuddy marches in.

"Dr. Cuddy?" asks the young doctor, obviously fully aware of who _she_ is.

"What are you doing, Dr. Silvenshur?" she asks, exasperated.

"Um," he squirms, "taking a history?"

"Really? Because quizzing Dr. Wilson doesn't sound too much like taking a history to me."

"Um…"

"Mr. Robinson is a close relative of a _very_ generous donor—I want him to get the best, most efficient medical treatment available, understood?"

Silvenshur squirms, "If you want, I can transfer the case to the department head…"

The psychiatric department head is brilliant doctor. He is also someone who would unequivocally recognize Wilson. Worse yet, he would recognize _House_.

"That's not currently necessary, Dr. Silvenshur," Cuddy says, amazing Wilson with how held together she makes herself appear. "Just try not to screw up, and stick to treating the patient, not quizzing the staff."

"Okay, um…" the attending says, scanning hurriedly through his notes. "It appears that the patient has probably not taken his prescribed dose of Zyprexa for the past two days, which probably contributed to his recent breaks. We've stabilized him for the short-term with a dose of Haldol, and we'll be reintroducing the Zyprexa in the morning. His records indicate that an increased dosage may not be wise, so we'll try to get him stabilized again on the same dose."

Cuddy stares at Wilson, obviously trying to mask the look of shock on her face. Wilson can almost hear the unspoken question written on her face. _Why would House of all people not take his medication?_

"The mental fogging?" Wilson asks. "Can you do anything for that side effect?"

"That's a difficult side effect for us to treat. There's not much we can do about it from psychopharm standpoint and non-psychopharm interventions--"

_Which House would never, ever comply with_, Wilson thinks.

"—are only minimally effective. Usually, we would try an alternate regime if that side effect proved significant, but in this case, that would probably be unsuccessful, given the patient's previous, negative experience with multiple regimes."

Wilson can see just the tiniest hints of shock and dismay run across Cuddy's face. While he was there during House's stay at Mayfield, with its myriad of failed attempts to medicate away the psychosis, she had been shielded from the cruelties of House's new reality. She had not seen House in troughs of tardive dyskinesia, his face twitching at odd involuntary intervals nor had she seen him lying there in psychic pain, unable to think clearly, the way he always had. She had not gotten used to the agonizing uncertainty that was now House's—and Wilson's—life. No, she was hearing so much of this for the first time, and it _hurt_.

"He _really _doesn't do well with the cognitive side effects," Wilson says, exhaustion creeping into his voice.

Silvenshur, who seems to have regained some of his ego, sighs. "The patient is stable enough to maintain a job. He is not constantly floridly psychotic. He does not have diabetes or metabolic syndrome. The antipsychotics _have_ side effects, yes, and Mr. Robinson will have to learn to cope with them. Compared to many patients, he is relatively lucky."

_Lucky. _Wilson keeps hearing that: _House is lucky. _Wilson is used to the idea of relative luck; he is, after all, an oncologist. Yet he still can't see House now as _lucky_. Physical diseases are awful, dangerous, destructive, and, sometimes, deadly. Psychotic disorders, however, seem to be a special sort of torture, something that could kill you and yet keep you alive all the same. With House, like with Danny, Wilson is learning that few things hurt more than mourning the same person—over and over again.

Wilson's thoughts are interrupted by his pager going off. Another crisis—damn it.

"Just take care of him," Wilson says hurriedly, and rushes out, secretly happy to be gone.

….

Wilson gets off at nine that night, but even though, he's dead tired, he doesn't go straight home. Instead, he heads to the fifth floor.

"What are you doing here?" the nurse asks Wilson, suspiciously, as he flashes his ID.

"Consult," Wilson answers.

"This late at night?"

"That's what I get for being on call," Wilson says, sighing.

"Okay," the nurse says, relenting. "Patient name?"

"Tim Robinson."

"Room 526, down the hall and to the right."

"Thank you," Wilson says quietly.

House's room is white and bare, with a single cot as the sole furniture. Though Wilson knows the spartan, lifeless quality of the room is the result of safety precautions, it still bothers him just a bit. Through the small window in the door, he can see House in a hospital gown, sleeping, with his head resting uncomfortably against the wall.

"I need to go in there," Wilson tells the nurse.

"Are you sure?" she asks, doubtful. "He's not particularly stable."

"I've done plenty of psych consults," Wilson replies.

"I can—"

"Do you have three years of advanced training in oncology?"

The nurse glares at him, obviously pissed, but opens the door anyway.

"Five minutes," she says.

Wilson walks over to House and sits down beside him. He moves to check House's pupils, just for show, and House's arm shoots up. Wilson grabs it gently.

"It's okay, House," Wilson whispers.

House stares at him, uncertain, untrusting. "Wilson?"

Without saying a word, Wilson grabs the sole pillow from the cot and places it carefully under House's head. He then checks House's pupils once more and gets up. "Good night, House," he whispers before leaving.

Wilson tells the nurse he'll have the report to submit to Dr. Silvenshur in the morning and heads to his apartment where he all but collapses in exhaustion. He does not dream.

…..

Two days later when Wilson makes his daily lunchtime trek to psych ward, he is surprised to see Cuddy standing by House's room.

"Hi," she says.

"What are you doing here?"

"Technically, performing administrative oversight."

Wilson smiles just slightly.

"How's he doing?" she asks.

"The say he's better," he says. "The Zyprexa's working again, and he should be released in a couple of days."

"Good."

For a moment, they don't speak.

"Is it… is it _always _like this?" she asks.

"Sometimes, it's better," Wilson says, thinking of all the _before_ days.

Cuddy stares at him.

"Really, you'll see. Sometimes, he's… well, he's _House_."

Cuddy smiles fleetingly. "Do you think it will be okay? If he's non-compliant…"

"I can take care of him," he says.

"Why is it your job?"

"He's my friend."

"There are other people who…"

"House _wanted_ me there. You didn't see him in Mayfield."

"You don't think I wanted to come?!"

"Look, I have to do this."

"Because…?

"I _just do_." He will not mention Danny

Cuddy stares at him, puzzled, mad, and then her defenses drop,

"I miss him."

"I know," Wilson says, and they both look through the window.

"Should we go in?" Cuddy asks. "I mean, he's not going to attend the social lunch hour.."

"He won't know if you're real," Wilson replies.

"Same for you."

"I know. Doesn't matter. Go back to work."

Cuddy stares at him, furious.

"It's easier on him," he says swiftly, not adding _don't break his heart twice._

She looks at him, eyes flashing with memory, and then she walks out without a word.

…

On the fifth day, House is released.

"Hi, Booberella," he says as Cuddy walks in. "You miss me?"

Wilson can see Cuddy choke back tears. "I came," she says, "to welcome you back to your job. I didn't think it's possible, but there's actually someone the med students dislike more than you."

"Well, I try," House says, grinning.

"I know," she says. "Welcome back."

House stares at her for a moment, and Wilson can see a million different emotions flash across his face. _He's scared_, he realizes.

House turns to Wilson, pretending to be unphased.

"Let's get out of here… The nurses have nothing on good old Pammie."

Wilson picks up House's small bag and walks out behind his friend. "How about lunch first?"

"On you?"

"Always."

He means it, in so many different ways.


	6. Chapter 6

**Sacrifice**

**Author note: The end—hope you enjoy this, and thanks for all the support—your reviews kept me writing! I don't own **_**Temptation Island **_**or **_**Baywatch**_**. Or **_**House**_**,****for that matter**

"Home again, home again," House says as he collapses immediately onto Wilson's couch.

"We need to talk," Wilson says.

"_Good God_, do you do _anything_ but talk? I thought you were an oncologist."

"You haven't talked to anyone for the past five days," Wilson points out.

"I talked at Mayfield. It obviously didn't take," House says, his voice growing quieter,

"You didn't take your Zyprexa, House. If you were any other patient, you'd call yourself an idiot."

"Maybe I am. Maybe the nuthouse did that for me," House says, turning on the TV.

Wilson grabs the remote. "You're deflecting."

"And _you're _blocking half-naked chicks."

Wilson sighs and circles around the couch. "Move over, House."

To his surprise, his friend acquiesces, and Wilson sits down.

"You're an ass," he starts;" you're misanthropic and sarcastic. You lie. You create misery. You drive away anyone who even _tries_ to care about you—"

"Then go away," House snarls.

"—but you're not an idiot," Wilson finishes, non-plussed. "You wouldn't skip your Zyprexa without a damn good reason."

"Yes, my choices are taking a drug that makes me unable use my mind, or actually losing it. It's _wonderful_."

"You'd choose complete psychosis over mental fogging?"

"I'd choose having a mind over not."

"So you choose _not _to take an anti-psychotic?"

House is silent.

"You can't give up," Wilson says.

"Yeah, because things are going so _well _for me."

"You have no hope?"

"Hope is a delusion, something idiots use to trick themselves into believing they aren't as hopelessly screwed as they really are."

"People move on. You moved on after Stacey. _I_ moved on after Amber. Pain gets better. _You_ told me that."

"I was wrong."

"_You're _never wrong. And if you were, you'd never admit it this easily."

House doesn't speak. Wilson sits there silently by his best friend for what feels like an eternity.

"I thought she fucked me," he says quietly. "I thought so many times that I got out of there. I thought you came every day. I thought _she_ came everyday,"

"You were hallucinating, House. It's different from being wrong."

"Wrong is wrong. Dead is dead."

"You're not dead."

"Sure, I'll just fall back on running marathons." House's voice drips with sarcasm.

"Medicine is all that matters to you?"

"My _mind_ is all that mattered to me."

_Past tense_, Wilson realizes. _House puts himself in past tense. _A chill runs up his spine.

"You have people who _care_ about you. If you would open up—"

"They would trust me? _No one_ trusts me."

"They would _care_ about you."

"No, they would fake it. People fake caring. They send gift cards and baskets and shitty flower arrangements, but they don't actually give a fuck. People only care about people who can benefit them."

The unspoken words echo through Wilson's mind, _And I don't anymore._

"You _never_ gave anyone a _chance_ to care. You never have."

"I never gave anyone a chance to _lie_."

"Cuddy—"

"—bolted the minute I woke up from your little Haldol-induced coma."

"If you weren't such a sexist ass…"

"I've always been a sexist ass."

"But you haven't always been psychotic."

"_Brilliant_ deduction, Freud. If you're done with your psychoanalysis, Pay-per-view has some excellent porn on."

House gets up to grab the remote from the top of TV, and Wilson pushes him back down.

"Hey! Stop abusing the cripple!"

"Why am I still here, House?"

"Because you pathologically need to be needed. _Duh_."

"Have it every occurred to you once in the past 12 years that maybe, just maybe I _like _you? That maybe, for some bizarre reason, I actually _enjoy_ being with you?" Wilson's voice is tense and high.

House shakes his head. "No. You enjoy_ed_ the old me, the me who wasn't useless, the me who wasn't _fucking insane_. You don't _enjoy_ babysitting me—you just tell yourself you that because you want to believe you're capable of having one relationship in your life that you won't totally _fuck up. _You fucked up your marriages; you fucked up with Danny. This is a re-do; your chance to prove to yourself that you're really as _good_ as everyone thinks you are. As _you_ think you are._"_

For a minute, Wilson thinks he might hit House, as he has seen so many people do before. The jolt of rage hits him suddenly, and its intensity shocks him. He feels his hand clinch.

And then he stops.

"_This _is why I care," he says softly, his voice building slowly. "Because you're an absolute asshole. And you speak your mind. And you have no filter, and we have no social contract. Because you're hilarious and annoying and you steal my food and take my money and build fucking popsicle stick houses. Because as much as you piss me off, I can't walk away from you. Because I knew from the moment you bailed me out of jail that there was no one else in the world like you. Because sometimes when you're on Zyprexa, _you're still you_. Fine—this is _all about me_. Because as much as I try to hate you, I actually, for some God-unknown reason, _care_ about you."

House stares at him for a minute, shocked. And then a grin spreads across his face.

"You _selfish bastard_."

"That makes two of us, then."

House grabs the remote and turns on _Baywatch_.

"Can't we watch something else?" Wilson asks.

"_Temptation Island_?"

"Can't you pick something that isn't filled with sluts?"

"Can't you pick something that is?"

Wilson sighs and settles into the couch.

"You really _had_ to use my credit card, huh?

"Come on, you're complaining about having _that_ ass to look at?"

Despite himself, Wilson smiles.

_Selfish bastard. _In this moment, there is nothing else he would ever want to be.


End file.
